Sado: Japan's Island in Exile

  Sado

  Japan’s Island In Exile

  by

  Angus Waycott

  Copyright © Angus Waycott 1996, 2012

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

  First published in the USA in 1996 by Stone Bridge Press, Berkeley, California

  ebook by EBooks by Design

  www.ebooksbydesign.co

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Given the choice, no-one ever went to Sado. For a thousand years, this island off the west coast of Japan was a place of exile for the deposed, disgraced or just plain distrusted — ex-emperors, aristocrats, poets, priests and convicted criminals alike.

  This book rediscovers the exiles’ island, explores the truth about its notorious gold mine, tracks down a vanishing badger cult, and drops in on the home of super-drummer band Kodo. Along the way, it paints a vivid picture of one of Japan’s most intriguing backwaters, now emerging from a long exile of its own.

  WHAT THEY SAID

  "Observant, perceptive and funny ... will become the definitive English guide." Asahi Evening News

  "He knows what to look for and describes it accurately" Donald Richie, Japan Times

  "The writer has done his homework ... the book benefits from his sharp eye and the charm of his writing." Pittsburgh Post-Gazette

  “...affectionate and informative travelogue.” Japan: The Rough Guide

  Table of Contents

  Sado Island: location

  Sado Island: map

  Day 1: A “Minus Image”

  Day 2: Sounding Echoes

  Day 3: Heart of Gold

  Day 4: Among The Exiles

  Day 5: Music Through The Pines

  Day 6: Ship Horse Picture

  Day 7: Ball of Fire

  Day 8: Rafts Where Seagulls Crowd

  Bibliography

  About The Author

  Sado Island: location

  Sado Island: map

  Day 1

  A “Minus Image”

  When I woke up, a crow was eating my last rice ball. It was my own fault, of course, for not having wrapped it more securely the night before. I didn't begrudge the crow a share, but the way he was eating it was all wrong. A few vigorous pecks had stuffed his own beak as full as it would go, but most of the rest of the rice ball had fallen in lumps onto the sand where, as far as I was concerned, they were beyond recovery.

  Dawn had begun to lighten a cloudy sky. I sat up and stretched my arms. The crow flapped off. There was no-one else on the strip of shingle beach, and the gray sea stretched unbroken to the horizon. I climbed out of my sleeping bag, put on my boots, and inspected the fire. It appeared to have burnt out: black-ended scraps of driftwood radiated from the middle like the spokes of a misshapen wheel. But when I held my palm over it, I could still feel some warmth. Collecting the dry twigs put aside the previous evening, I arranged them in a little pyramid and blew on the ashes until they burst into flame. Soon the fire had recovered enough for me to boil a can of water and make some tea.

  A few miles south along the coast lay Ryotsu, the main port of Sado Island, where I had landed the afternoon before. From the deck of the arriving ferry, my strip of beach would already have been visible: in fact there is nowhere else from which so much of the island's coast can be seen all at once. O-Sado, "Great Sado," the northern half of the island, looms ahead and to starboard, its blue and purple mountains rising steeply to a rugged ridge some 3,000 feet above the shore. To port is Ko-Sado, "Little Sado," the southern half, where the mountains are less forbidding and the coastline more benign: a patchwork of yellow-sand beaches, lumpy outcrops of volcanic rock, wooden houses clustered into hamlets around tiny bays, and green, wooded hills rising gently back to the horizon. And in between lies Kuninaka, the "inside country," the flat, alluvial plain that links Sado's two mountainous halves. Kuninaka is where the biggest settlements are, the most prosperous businesses, the widest roads, the best farms, the broadest rice fields, the most historic temples.

  After the bustle and activity of the mainland, Ryotsu harbor in the afternoon seemed almost unnaturally quiet. A small truck buzzed by on the quayside road. Two women sat on a low wall, talking to a policeman. A bus driver appeared round a corner folding a newspaper, stuffed it into his pocket, and swung himself up into his cab. Two small boys chased each other along the pavement. Otherwise, not a sound, nothing to suggest that this place was the principal port for an island with 80,000 inhabitants.

  Behind the town is a large lake called Kamo-ko, most of which is used for raising oysters. The lake is linked to the sea by a short channel, first opened by gale-blown waves about a century ago and later slightly enlarged for the purpose (never realized) of creating an inland harbor. The two villages on either side of the channel, Ebisu and Minato, were unified in 1885 to create the single settlement of Ryotsu, "Double Port", which was then officially designated as the island's gateway to the rest of the country. It's a relaxed, indolent little town, with a long main street, arcaded on both sides, a busy quayside fish market, several shrines and temples, and a network of side streets and back alleys lined with cheerfully dilapidated wooden houses. Another time I would explore it, but not now. It was already four o'clock. A week's walking lay ahead, and I wanted to get started.

  Shouldering my pack, I set off to find the coast road heading north. On the way, I passed a temple with a graveled garden and a large statue of Kobo Daishi, the eighth-century founder of Shingon, "True Teaching," Buddhism and one of Japan's most famous wandering priest-monks. The statue's copper had oxidized, softening the original color to a pale and streaky green. Kobo Daishi towered above me on his concrete plinth. He was wearing a wide, bowl-shaped hat and straw sandals and held a staff in his right hand. There was a box in front of him for offerings. I tossed a few coins into it, and they clattered as they fell inside. Then I put my hands together, bowed, and prayed for a successful journey.

  There was no traffic on the road out of town. The houses on each side had front gardens planted with shrubs, flowers, and fig trees whose small fruits were just starting to swell. A few also contained ponds where red and yellow carp lolled and splashed, rolling backward and forward among the rocks in lazy figures of eight.

  Beyond these last outposts the town atmosphere, such as it was, quickly melted away. The first hamlets I passed wore a mellow, ancient, weather-beaten countenance, quite different in color from villages on the mainland. No concrete had been used in building them: all was plain timber, bleached by the sun. The shrine gates were made of unpainted logs, some freshly repaired, others rotten and crumbling away. Without traffic lights, advertising posters, or neon signs, all the colors seemed suddenly to have returned to nature: the browns of soil, mud, wattle, dust, weathered cedar, wooden tubs, tree bark; the greens of wild grass, cabbages in tiny gardens, young rice shoots planted in ranks in the paddies, leaves, the tangled scrub on the mountainsides; sudden splashes of yellow, irises, marigolds, and maize; and huge blues of sky and sea, flecked with the white of clouds and wave crests.

  Above a row of cottages towered a stand of tall bamboo, the leafy tops waving softly in the breeze like huge feathers. A footpath wound up from the road into its deep shade. Beside the path lay some long, straight stems left behind by the cutters, perhaps that same day. From three to five inches in diameter, they had been taken down with a single clean, diagonal cut at the base but had not yet lost their fresh, cool, powder green hue. Close by was a small woodyard, with more bamboo poles, some green, some br
own, sorted into heaps according to size. A little white pickup truck stood just off the road, and there was a strong smell of freshly cut cedar. From inside a long shed I could hear the tapping of a chisel and the low hum of an electric saw.

  I stopped at a small temple behind some cherry trees. The roof had recently been repaired and was covered with shiny black tiles. At each end of its ridge stood a clay dolphin finished with the same black glaze, head downward and tail in the air, a charm against earthquakes, typhoons, and other disasters. I clapped my hands twice to call the attention of the deity within, made a brief bow, and then raised my eyes again. Peering up through the leaves of a tall old cherry, I could see a large brown kite perched on the roof, its head cocked slightly to one side as if puzzled as to where the clapping had come from. I stayed still, and after a few moments the kite gave up on the problem, opened its wings, and launched itself flapping into the sky.

  Birds can be seen everywhere along the coast of Sado — plovers, wagtails, sandpipers, gulls and more, but the two commonest species are the crows and these black-eared kites, or tobi. Easily recognized by their long tails, the kites like to live on hillsides near the sea, where they build large nests of branches and twigs in the high forks of pine trees. When they're not looking down on the world from some convenient perch they glide silently above it instead, maintaining speed with occasional slow beats of their great wings as they search for little mammals, scraps of fish, or carrion. This diet brings them into direct competition with the crows, and aerial dogfights are frequent. In fact any other diet would have the same effect, since the crows eat everything, including garbage. Unlike the kites, whose nuisance value is offset by their elegant looks and regal manner, the fierce and muscular crows are universally disliked for a whole string of negative qualities: their harsh croaking, funereal plumage, quarrelsome nature, and generally arrogant way of strutting about.

  In ancient times, things were different. Crows were regarded with reverence. This idea originated in China, where the species symbolized filial piety because the young were seen to feed and care for their disabled elders. Today that reverence has disappeared, although the crows' ready adaptability still arouses curiosity, and even a grudging respect. In the cities they live as resilient, all-purpose scavengers, foraging for food in the early morning by tearing open garbage bags and scattering their contents across the streets. One bird in Tokyo, the subject of a TV documentary, had become a true urban neurotic: it built a nest out of colored coat hangers stolen from washing lines and spent a good part of each day sitting inside it, barking fiercely at people in the street below. All in all, the commentator reported, crows in modern Japan have "a minus image."

  Sado, too, has a residual "minus image" among the people of Japan, although modern tourist companies are working hard to dispel it. The main reason is that for a thousand years the island's remoteness, inaccessibility, and fearsome winter climate made it one of the government's favorite places for sending undesirable people into exile. Over the centuries, a steady stream of disaffected aristocrats, scheming politicians, and nonconformist priests — not to mention thieves, sex offenders, arsonists, hoodlums, and other ordinary criminals — arrived for visits that were always long and often permanent. To make matters worse, judicial custom denied the exiles the right to know the length of their sentences. Removed at a stroke from their homes and familiar surroundings, they had no choice but to assume the worst and start life again from the beginning. What they endured, both from material deprivation and the agony of not knowing if they would ever be allowed to leave, was deeply impressed into the folklore of the island and handed down in plays, songs, and stories. As a result, Sado has a reputation as a sort of spiritual ultima Thule, frozen in heart as well as in fact. To the collective Japanese mind it stands for cold, melancholy, loneliness, separation, hopelessness, and despair. Not ideal, by the sound of it, for a walking tour. More like a recipe for chronic depression. Except that islands, by virtue of their isolation, preserve a whole range of natural and social conditions long after they have disappeared on the mainland, where development is more rapid. So that behind Sado's "minus image" might be more than one intriguing window on long-ago Japan.

  I had only come a few kilometers from Ryotsu, but the sun was already going down on the other side of the mountains. Here on the east-facing coast, all was in shadow. Suddenly I was assailed by a gust of the sweet, heavy scent of clover: a large clump was growing on an embankment above the sea, and a few fat bumblebees, buzzing contentedly, were still gorging themselves on the nectar. At the foot of the embankment, the narrow beach was rough and littered with pebbles, none smaller than an orange, none larger than a melon. The sea was almost still. Tiny wavelets rose and rolled over on the stones with a chattering hiss right at the edge of the shore.

  An old woman on her way home from the fields rounded the corner in front of me, trundling a barrow laden with vegetables. She wore mompe (work trousers), a pink- flowered smock, an ancient woolen jerkin, and short rubber boots. On her head was a shallow, circular straw hat secured by a white cotton cloth whose ends were neatly knotted beneath her chin. Seeing me, she stopped and set down the handles of the barrow.

  "Where are you going?" she wanted to know.

  "I'm walking up that way," I answered, gesturing ahead, "toward Washizaki."

  "To Washizaki?" she exclaimed. "That's a long way. You won't get there tonight."

  "No," I said, "I'll camp on the way."

  "Camp?" she said. "Camp where?"

  I looked around. "Maybe right here," I told her.

  She glanced down at the beach, then back at me.

  "Camping. . .," she said thoughtfully. "What will you eat?"

  "I've brought some food with me. I'll be fine."

  She considered the idea for a moment, then smiled. This was obviously another of those foreigners who didn't know how to do things the normal way. People who wanted to camp on Sado came in the summer, when it was hot, not in spring. They didn't stay on shingle beaches either, but on properly appointed campsites. She looked into my face, still smiling. "Would you like something from here?" she asked, gesturing at the barrow.

  There were some long white daikon radishes, a few cabbages, and several onions. An onion would go well with the noodles I had brought.

  "That's very kind. Your onions look excellent." I picked one from the barrow. "How much would I owe you for this one?"

  The old woman declined the idea of payment with a dismissive wave. "But later on," she said, "won't you be cold?"

  "I'll keep the fire going after I've finished cooking."

  That made sense. She nodded in silence. We had covered everything.

  "Well, take care," she said. And with that she picked up her barrow and continued slowly down the road. But later, when dusk had fallen and it was almost dark, she reappeared carrying two rice balls wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper. "My husband said you must be hungry," she said with a smile. I thanked her, and before turning in, ate one of the warm, moist rice balls while sitting by the fire. The other one I saved for breakfast.

  ***

  I left the remains of the second rice ball on the sand where the crow had dropped them. As soon as I had gone, it would be back to finish them off. In the meantime, it was killing time a little way along the beach, pacing up and down while it waited for me to go. Well, let it wait. I drank my tea slowly, watching the dawn sky lighten, and then tipped what was left of the water over the fire. After that I covered the place with stones and, to obliterate any trace of my having been there, did the same with the small patch of sand I had cleared to sleep on. Not that camping on the beach was forbidden, but "one who excels in traveling," says the Tao Te Ching, "leaves no wheel tracks."

  Heaving my pack up onto my shoulders, I noted its weight with satisfaction. The first couple of hours of a walk are just long enough to tell you whether you are carrying too much or not. The last time I got it wrong, I was halfway up a mountain by the time the realization dawned. Thi
s time I had pared my requirements to the minimum. No tent, for one thing. It would be a mistake to come here without one in the height of summer, when the mosquitoes are at their worst. But May is a different story. Instead of a tent I had brought a large sheet of blue plastic, in which I rolled myself up, sleeping bag and all, like a long sausage. It was as rainproof as I would be likely to require.

  Before setting off, I looked out across the sea toward the mainland, but there was nothing in sight. The distance is only forty miles or so, but it's quite usual not to be able to see from one side to the other. The wandering Zen poet Santoka Taneda stopped on the opposite shore during the 1930s and wrote a haiku about it:

  Sitting here on this sand dune—

  Today again

  No sight of Sado.

  Today, as in the past, Sado remains a place that people tend to pass by. They ponder its strange, bleak history while looking wistfully towards it from the opposite shore. Sometimes, like Santoka, they write poems about it. Even Basho wrote one. The inspiration must have come to him at night because it's about "the River of Heaven," the Japanese name for the Milky Way:

  A wild sea—

  And stretching across to Sado,

  The River of Heaven.

  It was time to get going. I looked around for a suitable stick to carry. All Japanese pilgrims and wanderers carried a staff, to lean on, to clear a path through undergrowth, and as a means of defense. I had also read that they banged it on the ground as they went so that snakes would hear it and stay out of their way. A few yards along the beach lay a bamboo pole that looked just right — an inch or so in diameter and six feet long, about as tall as me. I picked it up, tapped the ground with it a few times, and then clambered up the embankment onto the road. Clubbing the tarmac with a bit more energy than necessary, to get the feel of the stick, I set off towards Washizaki, the fishing port near the island's northern tip, about thirty kilometers away.